Don't Save Me
by Amanda Drowry
Summary: This is an ORIGINAL story. Please review. Sometimes saving someone from the fate they have chosen doesn't do any good.


**DON'T SAVE ME**

**By: Amanda Drowry**

I was lying in a bed. I was surrounded by white, and light.

_This can't be hell. Is it heaven? No, it can't be heaven either. Why would I be in heaven?_

"Where am I?" obviously I had spoken out loud.

"Your in the hospital. And I must say, it's very lucky your brother found you when he did," said a sweet and poetic voice.

I opened my eyes and gazed at my surroundings- but not at myself. I didn't want to see.

"Do you know what happened? Do you remember?" everything she said sounded like poetry. Awful, mocking poetry- it was giving me a headache.

"Yes," I said simply. And then I looked- at myself. I looked at the bruises, and the scars, and the white bandages that must be covering the cuts. But the blood- the blood was gone, and I was thankful. I didn't want to see it.

"Why?"

There it goes again. Her voice is like a wind chime, its sweet music was mocking me, teasing me, asking me why I didn't just finish the job so she wouldn't have to worry about me.

I didn't answer her.

_Why should I?_

I looked at my arms again. There were needles and plugs in every inch of my arm. There was an IV drip and blood in my right arm. My left arm was plugged into about ten monitors.

I moved, then I groaned. I hadn't ben in pain until now, and there was a lot of pain- everywhere.

The nurse with the annoying sing-song voice walked over and increased what I assumed to be a morphine drip. The pain soon abated and my eyes soon closed.

I was alone. My eyes opened wider as I searched the room once again. Yes, I was alone. Just like I always was at home…just like I was when the thought crept into my head…just like I was, before he found me.

I felt it rising in me. The pain, the anguish, the rage, the hate- the hopelessness. No one was here. No one was here because no one cared!

_Damn my brother! Why couldn't he have left me on the floor?_

And I began yanking, tearing, and screaming. I was pulling the needles and plugs out of my arms. My fingernails scratched my skin. I pulled the bandages of my arms. I was bleeding from both old and new wounds by the time the doctors and nurses came rushing into the room.

They grabbed my arms and legs, I fought…I struggled….I yelled…..I hollered……I screamed…….I struggled……..

This time when I woke up I wasn't alone. There was a doctor in the room examining the monitors which were once again plugged into my arms.

_My arms!_

I couldn't move them. I looked at them- _straps._ I had been strapped down to the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your vitals, your blood and morphine drips, and your bandages. You gave us quite a scare…again."

"Why do you care?"

"Because I think it's a waste. Your young and beautiful. Your worth so much more than this."

"Tell it to my family."

"They care about you. How could thy not care?"

"If they care so much, where have they been the last two days?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. Because he knew I was right, he just couldn't admit to it. He left my room mumbling something about having other patients to attend to.

And I was alone.

_Why do they put me through this? Why can't they just leave me alone like I was before? Why can't they let me do what I want? Why don't they just let me…die?_

At my meeting with the psychologist, all she ever said was that I could get over it. No matter what happened, it wasn't worth my life. I could find a way to work the problem out, I could fix it, I could make it better.   
_Damn right I could._

I walk into the dark apartment and throw the keys on the kitchen counter. I can still smell blood in the bathroom, even though it has been two years since I was released from the hospital. The smell makes me sick.

I glance at my arms. There is only scars now, but I remember when those scars were non-existent- when there was blood…

I shake it off. I am alone again, finally. But I like it this way better now. No one bothers me. I can lie down and let my thoughts take root like they used to.

I take a small piece of paper from my bedroom and write something on it. It wasn't long, just something meaningful- to me. Short and simple, but it gets the point across.

I taped it to the bedroom mirror where I could see it, as is my custom, and climb into the now full bath tub.

When they found me no amount of blood would come to my rescue or return the blush to me cheeks. They could never have understood my pain. But mostly, they could never hope to understand my note:

Not everyone can be saved- don't save me.


End file.
